


Acrylic or Oil, Perhaps Charcoal

by lancesface



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Sherlock, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, Teenlock, Unilock, army John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lancesface/pseuds/lancesface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets John when John agrees to be a live model for Sherlock's art class. Sherlock is swept away in the complexity of John's physique and waits for him after class to take a closer look at the person beneath the beautifully textured skin. Painter AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acrylic or Oil, Perhaps Charcoal

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd and un-britpicked  
> Please message me if there are any glaringly horrendous errors.  
> Just saying I've never taken art classes at a college so I've no idea how they work or if my portrayal is even correct. I just took what I've seen in TV shows and movies and such. So sorry if the classes actually don't work like this.

Sherlock glared at anyone who dared look him in the eyes as he stalked down the footpath towards the art studio on campus. Of course today had to be the day they were working with the new live model and Mycroft had just had to come kidnap him for the morning and bug him about settling into a real career, wasting time that could have been better spent working on his paintings of the human anatomy in different stages of decomposition. If he'd wanted to become a pompous government worker he would have done so by now. Painting was far easier, more freeing, and almost relaxing. But now his shoulders were tense and his face set in a grimace that was even enough to ward off Molly as she fell into step beside him. The generally chipper and talkative med student was usually completely unaffected by Sherlock's antisocial behaviour but even she had the ability to sense when talking to him might cost her her dignity.

“Erm, they've brought in a new body for dissection. If you like I can smuggle you a few toes,” the girl ventured as the silence stretched on between them. Sherlock slid a glance to her, grey eyes scanning her face, before tipping his head in agreement, refusing to deign her with a voiced response.

“Right, okay,” she murmured quietly beside him. He barely noticed when she slipped off to the lab for her own class.

He continued towards the studio and no one dared speak to him. The smell of the fresh cut grass grated on his nerves, the subtle cracks in the building irritated him, every miniscule piece of data that his mind collected only managed to piss him off further. He effectively had the metaphorical black cloud hanging over his head; releasing sporadic streams of lightening at anyone who dared to get too close.

He entered the art building with a bang, the wooden door nearly swinging off its hinges as it was rammed into the tiled wall. Silence, complete silence. Every other student who had nothing better to do with their time gawked at Sherlock as he moodily stomped his way over to the station in the back of the room where natural lighting would be best.

As Sherlock went about pulling out his supplies his eyes roamed the room, peeling and ripping every scrap of information from their open faces and bodies. Boring! Seven were planning on dropping the class at the end of this semester, three were cheating on their boyfriend/girlfriend (tedious!) , and one had a rather spectacular rash covering the majority of his genitals and, Sherlock might add, making a rather valiant attempt to not drop his trousers and pants to rake his hand over it. When was anyone interesting ever going to pop in. Sherlock gladly invited them, anything but this regular flow of normalcy.

Sherlock continued about his organising; taking his materials and setting them on the worktop according to colour and name (he called it his hue index). He hoped against hope that this model would at least be interesting to put down on canvas. Sherlock loathed the ones that were mediocre: no scars, no freckles, no nothing, just plain skin on a plain person. Especially when they had the same shade all around; fully pale or fully tan. It was like the art director hardly bothered to find anyone even remotely interesting and just went for the cheapest model he could afford.

Precisely six minutes and 23 seconds later the professor walked in followed by a another man. Sherlock perked up. Hopefully, this man would be their model today. His body was glorious. From what Sherlock could see his skin tone was dark tan on his face and wrists but petered out below the sleeves of his jacket. His hair was a mix of a golden blonde with a duller sort of brown, and his eyes, oh his eyes, they were a deeper shade of blue than even the depths of all the oceans couldn't encompass. His hands and neck were littered with small scars, changing the texture from rough and coarse to smooth and soft. His muscles protruded from the t-shirt that was stretched taught across his torso and created the most beautiful dips and crevices, shadows shrinking and growing with every movement.

Sherlock was already formulating ideas for what he could do to capture that phenomenal physique on canvas. His brain was whirring with the possibilities. Should he use acrylic or oil, using the form holding properties and oxidation process to keep the textures of the gorgeous specimen in front of him, or should he use his charcoal, taking the different mediums of the material to procure the shadows that every movement the body made, on canvas? For once Sherlock was excited, he had options! Options that could create a masterpiece out of a masterpiece. His brain was quiet of all except for the thought of painting such a unique beauty.

Sour mood completely forgotten Sherlock actually paid attention as his professor began to speak.

“Class,” the professor began, “today we have the pleasure to have John Watson as a model for us. As always he will chose a position that is comfortable for him and we will go from there. Please be courteous and respectful to him as he does not have to put up with your antics,” The professor pointedly looked at Sherlock with that last bit. He paid no mind, hands already aching to begin. Each finger twitching with impatience.

John smiled politely at the class as he made his way to the podium in the middle of the room. Before he stepped up he stopped and began to pull his t-shirt off and over his head, shoulder and back muscles tensing as he did, deepening the valleys of his skin and stretching his somewhat marred skin tightly. Somewhere a girl let out an extremely undignified squeak and Sherlock only barely managed to contain his. The light coming in from the window created a lazy halo around John, the gold light reflecting of his hair and creating the illusion of a halo glowing around the crown of his head.

And slowly his jeans came off as well. His thigh muscles were huge, seemingly constantly tensed even when relaxed. Smatterings of coarse hair covered the paler skin and made all the air in Sherlock's lungs come out in one giant breath; the hair on the back of his neck standing upright. Everything about John was perfectly compact, hoarding muscle tissue and skin together and making the man before him. His skin was luminescent in the late afternoon sun, warming the room and John's skin alike. He left his pants where they were and made a neat pile of his clothes next to the podium.

As he stepped up on the platform he caught Sherlock's eye and gave him a small smile that still made his eyes seem as deep as space. His eyes stayed in Sherlock's direction as he positioned himself, assuming military rest with his chest pushed forward and hands folded behind his back, displaying a vibrant scar on his left shoulder, pink tissue raised up and spongy. His feet were spread a hips width apart and he stood perfectly straight, chin raised and looking ahead to where Sherlock sat, eyes glazed over and mouth open slightly.

Coming back to himself after that nearly pornographic performance, Sherlock shook his head, shifted in his stool, and looked back down to his supplies. He pondered what could possibly encapsulate this stunning man in front of him, nothing seemed good enough. He supposed that the best thing he could use was oil paint. This way the shapes and shadows that moved around John could be embodied on canvas; keep his figure golden and perfect, like some sort of god.

* * *

Two and a half hours later and Sherlock finally set his brush down. He would never be pleased with this work for, because of him, it could never match the divine beauty John was exhibiting. But it had been such fun, one of the best challenges his brain and hands had received. His mind had calmed and focused, settling in on the only thing that mattered. And it had been blissfully, exotically silent.

His brush made a small clatter on the palate as he gave his work its final touches. Wiping his stained hands on his smock he made his way to sink and began the process of washing all of his materials, scraping the caked paint out from the bristles and taking the stain out of them with small drops of turpentine.

He was some the first students done, others beginning to sweat with the impending end of class looming just minutes away. As he walked back to his easel he observed some of the other students work. He scoffed at some of their shoddy techniques. Most had been working from the frame of John's body, using his shape as a starting point, instead of using the natural light and shadows to make the shape and going from there. A few had had gotten it right but they’d stumbled themselves up when they tried to make his facial features and completely forgot about the necessity of shadows.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at the rest, and picked up his messenger bag, meeting John's eyes from under his supply table and feeling a shudder run down his spine. He practically flounced past the rest of the students, all of them glaring daggers at his skull, and started out the door, before he back tracked quickly and threw a cheeky wink in John's direction.

* * *

It wasn't long before students began to filter out of the building in clumps, most girls practically swooning at John, boys talking about how he was able to be so fit, and other inane drivel that Sherlock muted as he smoked, leaning his back against the brick wall and keeping his eyes open for one person only while smoke curled lazily within his lungs.

It was as the sun was starting to leisurely disappear behind the horizon that John finally emerged from the building, swinging his jacket over his back, t-shirt on and legs moving a tad stiffly, which was to be expected after almost three hours of standing.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock's voice sounded from the shadows and John whirled around to face him, face and jaw set tightly before relaxing upon seeing Sherlock.

“Those aren't very good for you,” He answered instead, gesturing to the cigarette between Sherlock's fingers and folding his arms across his chest (his gloriously muscled chest).

Sherlock smirked and moved towards John, taking another pointed drag of the cigarette before flicking the butt away and matching John's folded arms and posture, pulling himself up to his full height in front of John. Up this close he could see so much more detail, the flecks of gold in John's irises, the hard line of his jaw, the chasm of his collarbone set deep in his muscled chest.

“That wasn't my question. Where are you shipping off to? Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked again slowly, his voice rolling off his tongue smooth like chocolate. Something in John relaxed slightly, shoulders loosing their tension and face softening.

“Afghanistan, tomorrow.”

“So, a soldier that exhibits traits of extreme loyalty to the point of disregard for your own person, yet you can't bear to be around your family the night before you ship out,” Sherlock said aloud, watching John's face shift and display every emotion openly and easily.

“Yeah, well, it's not like they're the most understanding of people,” he said shrugging his left shoulder and casting a quick glance towards it, “Besides, I really couldn't stand the betrayed looks both my mum and sister have been giving me for the past three days much longer. They act like its my fault and I really couldn't take it any longer. Rather be here where people actually appreciate my presence than just resenting it.” John shrugged again, deep blue eyes looking up at Sherlock, emotions swirling about the blue colouring like stardust. He felt a strange desire to keep John away from his bitter family. It was odd, a sort of churning in his stomach that made him feel extremely unsettled. He looked at John again, eyes quick and pulling strings of information from his person, from the way he held himself, from the way he cast his eyes about.

“Alcoholic father then, sister following in his footsteps” Sherlock said. John's eyes snapped up at him and, for a moment, Sherlock worried if he'd done the thing that made everybody always leave in a huff. But, the look softened to one of...admiration?

“That was, how did you know that?” Sherlock explained quickly, fumbling through his words at some points. John's smile only widened as he explained he deductive sequence and by the time Sherlock had finished John had a stupid grin splitting his face that looked oddly endearing with his warm features. Sherlock found himself smiling as well. They probably looked like they’d gone mad but for Sherlock to enjoy another person's company was a rare occurrence.

John face eventually sobered a bit and he looked back up at Sherlock, fair eyelashes catching the fading light and making them glimmer translucently.

“I saw your painting of me,” John said, and Sherlock's grin shrunk to an almost grimace. “Yeah, the professor let me look at a few and I loved yours the most, and that's not because I’m biased,” John grinned, “You have such a talent. The way you got the light to look like it was leaping through the canvas was truly amazing. That coupled with that deducing thing makes you a serious threat on the talent spectrum.” Sherlock's heart was beating quickly beneath his skin, rattling away against his ribcage and shaking all of his other organs.

“You could see my others,” Sherlock suggested suddenly, surprising even himself. He barely let anyone see his art unless it was for a grade. It was almost always too personal, too close to him for anyone else's eyes to see and sorely misinterpret.

“I wouldn't want to intrude,” John paused and Sherlock realised he was waiting for a name.

“Sherlock,” he supplied quickly.

“Well, I wouldn't want to intrude, Sherlock. It's your art, but if you’re sure, I would love to see more. The best art I've seen in recent years is when my sister decided to mix whiskey and scotch in her stomach and spew it on the living room walls. Jesus, that took forever to clean.” John half joked as Sherlock began to walk, leading John to where his dorm room was, his long strides forcing John to trot to keep up.

He was a bit embarrassed as he unlocked the door. He had pages of notebooks strewn about the place, taped on the walls and bookcase. The windows were covered in his ideas and there was no visible order to a man like John who had everything he owned in neat little rows and categories. His canvases hung from sticky hooks on the walls and some where even dangling from strings on the ceiling.

John's eyes were saucers as they took in the room, deep blue eyes nearly black as Sherlock searched for the light switch that was hidden amongst the drawings. Flicking it on he had to blink quickly as light flooded the room, livening the paintings and shrinking John's pupils to pinpricks.

John was stepping over everything so carefully, barely disturbing the dust that lay in puffs along the floor. He stared at some of Sherlock's drawings from when he'd been working with extreme shadows to the ones where there was extreme light exposure.

“This is amazing. I've not seen anything like it. Everything's so exaggerated; emphasised.” John commented, face bright and smiling as he looked from Sherlock to the paintings and back.

“If you like I have others with the human anatomy,” Sherlock suggested, already moving to the dresser where, instead of clothes, the dried and stored his better works. Pulling them out and setting them gently on the bed Sherlock watched John's faced, his ever expressive face light up with wonder. His mouth hung open and his eyes were alight.

“These are incredible, Sherlock, the detail you have with the decomposition and all it entails is simply amazing. I know nothing of technique but, this, I just,” John turned to face Sherlock and Sherlock suddenly became aware of how close they were standing. John's face tilted up to look at him as there was a hairsbreadth of space between them, nearly chest to chest, exchanging breaths as his eyes searched John's.

For what seemed like an eternity there was only silence, Sherlock watched John watch him, looking into those exquisitely deep eyes. John's eyes could hold the cosmos and all it entailed, specks of light bounding around the confines of the galaxies within them.

“You’re brilliant, Sherlock,” John murmured, eyes closing half way as he glanced down to Sherlock's mouth and eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

“There are many people who would disagree with you,” Sherlock whispered back, bringing his head closer to John's. Close enough so that he could see the cracks in his thin lips, so close so he could see smatterings of fine hair over his face.

“People are idiots,” John sighed. He brought his face closer to Sherlock's and slowly fit his lips against his, sending a jolt of electricity through his body, straight through his chest, legs, and arms until it shot out of his fingertips and toes. John's mouth moved slowly against his, pulling on his lower lip and tugging in between his teeth eliciting a gasp from Sherlock. His tongue traced the seam of his mouth and dipped inside, caressing Sherlock's tongue with his. He sucked and pulled and felt along Sherlock's mouth; hands moving to the top of his head and threading through his mass of wild curls, tugging and trailing his fingers through the tangles. Sherlock shook from the energy coursing through his system, his hands vibrating as the pressed along John's shoulders, going over the contours of defined muscles beneath the soft fabric of his t-shirt. He felt hardened nipples underneath the pads of his fingertips and experimentally tweaked one. John groan reverberated from within him and traveled into Sherlock's mouth.

John slowly began to walk them backwards, pushing Sherlock towards the wall next to him bed. He was still careful to avoid the piles of papers but when Sherlock finally felt the solidity of the wall behind him and the compact wall of muscle in front of him he allowed himself to break away from the kiss and throw his head back; gasping for air, taking pull after pull of oxygen into his deprived lungs. Below him John worked on his neck, sucking bruises along his collarbone and the straining tendons in his neck, blood vessels breaking and exploding into what were sure to be brilliant purple splotches by the next morning. Sherlock threaded his hand into John's military short hair, holding him were he was, feeling him press his body against Sherlock's. His length was hard against his thigh and John undulated against Sherlock's body, continuing his ministrations on his neck as his hands slipped down his torso to the tops of his jeans and thumbed the button there.

John's mouth left his neck and Sherlock let out a small whimper, pressing himself against John to have continue, his jeans tented almost painfully as he rutted against John's stomach.

“You’re sure?” Two simple words that seemingly took forever to say. In answer Sherlock merely moaned, pulling John's mouth back against his. Their breathes ran together as they panted into each other's mouth, exchanging oxygen in fits of forced breath.

John deftly undid Sherlock's jeans and slid his hand inside Sherlock's pants, taking him in hand and spreading the pre-come that was already gathering at the head. Slowly he worked Sherlock to full hardness, strokes teasing and light as Sherlock writhed against the wall, body jerking and bucking with every pull. His hands were planted on either side of John's head, tugging John closure until his lips were fitted firmly on the juncture where neck met shoulder. John's other hand was planted firmly on Sherlock's hip, keeping them still as his hand worked over his shaft. His entire being was shaking, every pore exuding the scent of lust and want.

John raised his head from Sherlock's shoulder and looked up at him, blue eyes sparkling in the low light of the room, “You were so bloody gorgeous. I walked in that room, I saw you watching me, eyes nearly popping out of your head. Then you had to go and wink, you cheeky bastard,” Sherlock could only half listen, his head was too busy overloading with all the sensations. Every touch electrified his bones and even set the marrow within tingling. John took his other hand and rolled Sherlock's sac between his fingers and with a few more strong strokes his mind went blank. His muscles stiffened and he cried out as he came, body jerking under John's hand. John kissed the cries out of his mouth, swallowing every noise with a movement of his mouth against Sherlock's.

When Sherlock came down his entire body slumped partially on John and against the wall as John cleaned the mess with the t-shirt he'd divested himself of. Breath still coming in pants and eyes dotted from the pressure he felt John kiss his neck and caress the trail of hair that led down to his groin. He kept his touch light, avoiding any oversensitivity.

“Your so gorgeous. The most beautiful features, Sherlock. It's a shame that you can't paint yourself because you could rival the Mona Lisa,” John said as he raised his hands to Sherlock's face, placing them on both sides and kissing his cheekbones, his eyelids, even the tip of his nose. Sherlock held him by the wrists, keeping his eyes shut and basking in the praise that he so rarely received, taking every word and storing it away in mind palace, foregoing any change to the statements, keeping the tone and the meaning behind the words completely unchanged. He still felt John hard against him and slowly disengaged John's hands from his face, sinking to his knees and palming the erection that sat before him.

“No, you don’t have to...” John trailed off as Sherlock shot him a look from his position. Sherlock went forward and mouthed his cock through his jeans and pants, huffing hot air though the fabric and feeling John stiffen and groan in pleasure. His long fingers opened the button and zip easily, shoving them down John's well muscled thighs and staring at the full erection in front of him. With little more than a moment's hesitation Sherlock took John into his mouth, feeling him pulse against his tongue as he took as much of him as he could, covering the rest with his hand. John's hands came to rest in his hair as he worked his tongue over the slit and tongued the vein beneath, humming when John groaned. Sucking a breath in through his nose he bobbed his head, sucking in his cheeks as he glided over John's length. With a well placed swirl of his tongue John was coming down his throat, the hot liquid burning a trail of fire down his throat as he swallowed around John.

Sherlock pulled back, wiping his face with the back of his hand and looked up at a gasping John, his chest heaving with every breath, eyes wide as he gazed down at Sherlock.

“That was fucking amazing, Sherlock, you’re amazing,” John panted as he helped Sherlock up from his knees, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth as he did. As Sherlock turned a faint shade of pink from the continuous praise, John took the canvases that still lay on the bed and cleared them away. Then he gestured for Sherlock to sit down and so he did, allowing John to remove his jeans and discard them in a corner.

“I've got to get back. I have a flight to catch early tomorrow morning and if I don’t leave I'll never want to,” John turned to leave, pressing another kiss to Sherlock's forehead, but before he could Sherlock grasped his arm, fingers digging into the hard muscle of his biceps.

“John, you are being delusional. This time of night most of the cabs will be returning to the major roads and the main road that leads to the campus already has little to no traffic. Wait until early morning to get back. You’re flight doesn't leave until seven so you still have time to return home and gather your belongings.” John looked apprehensive before shrugging and scooting in next to Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, wrapping him in his large strong arms that seemed to exude warmth. Sherlock wasn't much for sleeping but he felt his eyelids begin to gradually lower, becoming heavier and heavier with every passing minute. He fell asleep with his head tucked over John's heart, the steady beat lulling him to sleep within minutes.

* * *

It was still early when Sherlock woke to the sound of John getting up and moving about the room.

“I wish you didn't have to go,” Sherlock said to the dark shadow that was rooting around in the dark. It paused before moving closer and sitting on the edge of the bed. John had one of Sherlock's older t-shirts on and had his soiled one in the back of his jeans. A hand smoothed over his curls and disentangle some of the worse knots.

“I wish I hadn’t met you this late, but I did and there's nothing I can do about that.” John voice was soft and his eyes were black from the still dark light outside.

“You must make me a promise, John Watson,” Sherlock said seriously, suddenly sitting up and pulling the hand in his hair to his heart, “You must promise to return in one piece, to return. Then look me up. The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address, well I don’t know that yet, but don’t forget. Promise me John. Promise me.” Sherlock's face hardened and he set his jaw, eyes wide and beseeching.

John nodded, looking deep into Sherlock's eyes until he felt like he was going to burst into tiny particles and scatter, become a part of the earth and ingrain himself within the stars.

“I promise, Sherlock.” The sincerity was palpable in John's voice. Slowly rising from his seat on Sherlock's bed, John leaned over and, taking Sherlock's chin in his hand, tilted his head up for one long, chaste kiss, pouring the emotions that were only just discovered into Sherlock's mouth and transporting them directly to his mind, keeping spoken words for a later time when things were evened out and stablised.

John parted reluctantly, deep eyes running over his features as he moved away, pulling his jacket on over the borrowed t-shirt and closing the door behind him with a click of finality.

Sherlock lay back in his bed, nose pressed in the pillow John had used, the fabric still clinging to some of John's scent. The smell of minty shampoo and cheap cologne filling Sherlock's nostrils as he fought to keep the tears that made no sense to him from spilling over onto his cheeks. A shuddering breath and Sherlock got out his sketch pad and began to draw.

 

_**10 Years Later** _

 

John woke in a hospital to the sound of a machine beeping in a rhythmic cadence. His entire body felt like it was alight with pain. The agony situating itself in every fiber of his being, nesting among his bones and squirming between his organs. The visceral pain in his shoulder weakened only by the morphine pumping through his system. His entire body felt grubby and unclean, like there were layers upon layers of dirt caked in every pore in his skin.

His eyes were just starting to droop again when a figure appeared at the door, tall and statuesque. It had a halo of dark curls and when it walked it was accompanied by the tails of a long, dark belstaff.

“You nearly broke your promise,” the dark figure admonished in a deep baritone. John smiled as sleep finally over took him again, head falling to side with the finest hints of a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any comments or kudos are appreciated immensely!  
> You can follow me on tumblr [here](http://sherlsdick.tumblr.com/)  
> Hope you enjoyed this!  
> XOXO


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